


It's Always Darkest

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Friendship, Greg being the wonderful person we know him to be, M/M, Teen Mystrade, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: The figure sitting on the bench, letting the tears flow freely, was a familiar sight to Greg Lestrade, but it was a sight that made his heart ache miserably.  Maybe tonight he should do something about it...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 52
Kudos: 244





	It's Always Darkest

Greg stood quietly out of sight and tried not to stare at the tall boy sitting on the bench in the darkest corner of the park, whose fine-featured face was shiny with tears just as it had been several times a week since Greg the night had been walking off a bit of a drunk one night and heard the soft snuffling that he decided to investigate.

It was always the same. Just a solitary soul sitting under the near-black tree, the only light being the diffuse, muted glow of the moon pushing its way through the dense canopy, as if the tree had decided to shelter the person beneath it to allow them their privacy. He hadn’t known what to do the first time he saw the boy, so he silently melted into the darkness himself and hung about a moment to make sure there were none of the typical arseholes lurking about in the area who would find this whole scenario a perfect setup for a rollicking night of misery. He also didn’t know why he changed his route home so that it now took him through the park every night or why he always stopped when he heard a certain sound and stood vigil until he was either convinced the lone figure would be safe or that figure heard someone else coming and darted off after a quick wiping of his eyes.

And he _definitely_ didn’t know why he followed that lone figure once and watched as he crept carefully through a left-open window at the back of a large house that seemed pleasant enough in the way that ‘designed’ houses tended to be, with just-so gardens and everything scrubbed clean and in tidy repair. Lovely on the outside but that didn’t say anything about the inside. At least not in terms of the people living behind those pretty walls. They could be good, bad or not really either and all people would see was the trimmed lawn and freshly painted door.

He should ask his mum who lived there, but somehow suspected all she’d know was what was being bandied about the pub because the sort of people who lived in this house didn’t pop down to the shops for a carton of milk or a sack of potatoes and mingle with the sort who did do that and on a daily basis. He could be wrong, though. Not that it mattered. Really. Who they were could be anybody and it wouldn’t change a thing about the fact a boy snuck out of that house for a good cry in the dark where the darkness had a safer pair of arms to hold him, maybe, than the people who didn’t seem to ever realize he was gone.

No, that might not be fair. He didn’t really turn to his mum or dad when something was wrong. When he was angry or frustrated or sad or worried. It wasn’t something you did at his age, so he shouldn’t think terrible things like that poor bastard had parents who didn’t care. Who were unfeeling or horrid. You think they’d realize, though, that something was wrong. But maybe not. He went from school to work every day and spent all weekend with his mates, so his parents didn’t have a lot of chance to notice if he was out of sorts. Wasn’t their fault, even if sometimes it felt that way when he was having a hard go of it and the only ears about to hear his troubles were his own.

Especially if he really _wanted_ someone else there to listen. Something as small as a body sitting there simply nodding now and then while he vomited out whatever bile was eating his stomach away would be a help, at times. Not everyone was like that, though. Some people didn’t want anyone to know when they were hurting. That was ok. They had their reasons and you couldn’t say someone’s reasons were shite just because you didn’t think the same way. Well, you _could_ if their thinking was mean or hurtful or dangerous, but that wasn’t what any of this was about.

Hopefully. Someone who needed a good cry… it wasn’t concerning when it happened once in awhile, but this was something different. You don’t sneak out of your house several times a week to hide away the tears if they’re just for poor marks at school or you asked someone out and they said sod off. You felt like rubbish when those things happened, but you went off with your mates for some stupid fun that made you feel better about life or hid in your room and worked through things for a few days until you felt better on your own. You didn’t do this. This was different.

And sad. Didn’t he have any mates to talk to about what was bothering him? That might not be a good question, though, because there _were_ things you didn’t want to share with your mates because… they were strange things. Personal and didn’t entirely make sense sometimes, but you knew that they weren’t the sorts of things you said out loud at the pub or when driving about looking for a bit of trouble. If you had a best mate, someone who was as much a part of you as your head, that was another matter, but who had those anymore? Some people, maybe, but nobody he knew. Could be that sort of thing never existed outside of books and films. Lots of people believed stuff they saw on the telly or read about in a book even though they never experienced it for themselves and nobody they knew did either.

That didn’t mean people didn’t care, though. He cared. Why? No idea, but he did. He cared enough to come this way every night in case he was needed. For what, again, no idea, but it felt like he should be here so this boy wasn’t alone. Of course, that _was_ exactly the daft sort of thing you saw in the films, but that didn’t make it less real. To him, at least. Maybe because he’d want someone doing that for him, standing watch so he could let whatever was inside of him show its face and shed a few tears to release that horrible pressure that had built up inside so he could breathe again. Breathe and carry on until he had to open the valve another time and repeat the whole business so he could _keep_ breathing and _keep_ carrying on for… well, for as long as necessary.

Too long, though, maybe. You shouldn’t have to do this over and over and over just to keep going. Just to make it to the next day, the next week, the next month. Nobody should have to do that. A lot of people did, most likely, but it wasn’t right and what did it say about the world that there wasn’t someone willing to reach out and say they cared. That they wanted to help. Or just to listen.

What did it say about _him_ that he was hiding in the shadows and not doing what his own fucking brain just said about the need for people who saw someone in pain and reached out to lend a hand? Good intentions and kind thoughts didn’t mean anything if they stayed in your head and you walked by that person with your hands in your bloody pockets. They might make you feel good about yourself, make you feel noble and virtuous, but what was that worth if it actually didn’t do a bloody thing for any person _besides_ you? He might only be a scruffy little punk, but even _he_ knew the answer to that was something he didn’t want to carry around his neck like an especially heavy albatross…

Stepping out of his patch of darkness Greg took slow, quiet steps until he was able to stand next to the bench and, seeing no notice being taken, had a seat beside the weeping figure.

“My name’s Greg. I’ve seen you here before and… I’ll sit with you, ok? If you want to talk, that’s ok, too. Whatever helps.”

“I… you… what…”

“Whatever helps, ok. Even if it’s nothing and I just sit here. I’m ok with that.”

“Wh… why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. I’d want someone to sit with me if I was upset. Maybe share for a bit what was making me hurt so it didn’t feel so heavy to carry alone. It’s ok, too, to tell me to push off because I’m being a bother. I won’t mind. Like I said, whatever helps.”

The silence between them stretched until Greg worried his thinking had been about as muddled as it was during maths class but he finally heard a loud sniff and saw from the corner of his eye a new round of tears beginning to fall on his new acquaintance’s face.

“My… my name is M… Mycroft.”

“That’s unique. I like it. What’s on your mind, Mycroft? Anything you want to talk about.”

“No.”

“Ok.”

“Not… now.”

“Later?”

“I… perhaps.”

“Alright. It’s a nice night. Good for sitting and watching the stars. I’ll be here, though, if you have something to say.”

Leaning back on the bench, Greg simply looked ahead at the night sky and admired the bright spots that made the darkness seem not quite so dark. He might never speak to this Mycroft again after tonight, but that wasn’t important. He was here now and, hopefully, it’d give this person another tiny light to chase that darkness far, far away. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was enough. If not… well, this bench would be ready tomorrow to greet a familiar visitor and so would he…


End file.
